


The Logistics of Four Balls In Play

by ladyflowdi



Category: NCIS
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, PWP, Virginity, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-27
Updated: 2009-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyflowdi/pseuds/ladyflowdi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So… so, here’s the thing. Tony is a little bit scared of cock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Logistics of Four Balls In Play

So… so, here’s the thing. Tony is a little bit scared of cock.

Alright, tiny little lie there, because Tony _has_ a cock and it would just be plain silly if he were afraid of his own cock. It’s been his pal through thick and thin, through good times and bad, through long, hot, sticky nights, and droughts the likes of which no man should ever experience. Tony isn’t afraid of his own cock, he loves the little guy. 

No, Tony’s just a little spooked by cocks that aren’t his, which might seem ridiculous – okay, okay, which _is_ ridiculous – but the facts are the facts.

1\. Cocks have one thought in their tiny little hindbrains, and that is ‘hotwettight’. He hasn’t had a lot of experience with other cocks, but reason dictates that it’s universal. This is not good, because while he’s perfectly content with his cock being somewhere hotwettight, he isn’t entirely sure he’s willing to return the favor. There are, after all, a limited amount of hotwettight places on the male body, and all of his are closed for business.  
2\. Cocks are well known for being temperamental. He does not want to suffer through limp sock syndrome if it turns out that not only does he _not_ like cock, but the very sight of it triggers some horrible boarding school trauma he’s repressed. Not that he thinks there are a lot of those, but there’d been a lot of nuns and vodka at the end. Anything is possible.  
3\. Cocks are hideous. He’ll laugh, he knows he will.

Okay, so maybe Tony isn’t scared so much as…hesitant. Apprehensive. Downright nervous. And he has every right to be, considering he’s playing a round of tonsil hockey with Timothy freakin’ McGee and losing miserably.

This is what Tony feels: the wood grain of his door through his shoulder blades, and the slick, damp plastic of the fast food bag he’s hanging onto (not because he’s hungry, though he is, but because it seems his fingers have locked closed and McGee is going to have to pry it off him if he ever wants to eat tonight), and the wool of McGee’s coat, scritchy on Tony’s neck where it’s brushing the thin skin over his pulse. He knows he feels all of that because McGee may be good, he may be damned good, he may be so good that Tony has totally misjudged him for years and this is his comeuppance, but—okay, no, it’s all background, his body has become the crowd and McGee’s tongue is Michael Jordan making a three-point shot in the last four seconds of the game.

This is what Tony feels: hotwet _good_. There isn’t much height difference between them at the moment, but there’s enough that this is weird and new and _weird_ because wow, that’s _McGee_ with his hands on Tony’s face, tilting his mouth up. That’s McGee’s soft lips and soft mouth and soft tongue, _kissing_. Kissing just the way Tony likes, revving him up like he’s a bike and McGee’s the leather-clad biker and ahaha, no, Tony can’t think that without laughing or moaning or both. _Now is not the time_ , with McGee’s tongue in his mouth, doing funny things and sending shivers and tingles racing down Tony’s neck and back and hips and thighs. 

Maybe he could let go of the bag after all, he thinks, and he knows in the morning it won’t be so romantic when he’s picking up eighty billionity grains of rice, but with his hands frees he can slide his fingers over McGee’s shoulders (his very male, very padded, very suit-wearing shoulders) and up over his bristly cheeks and wow, that’s hair, that’s stiff hair with enough product in it to withstand a day with Gibbs.

His brain catches up with whatever-the-hell part of him just thought necking like a couple of kids is ‘romantic’ and skips like a CD right into _oh my God we’re necking like a couple of kids_. Tony is thirtymumblemumble, he hasn’t necked since he actually _was_ a kid and had Rebecca Stafhunder on his bed, with her sweet little breasts and her sweet little lips and wow, even Rebecca doesn’t hold a candle to—

He breaks off from McGee’s kiss with a sound that isn’t what anyone would classify as ‘manly’, or even ‘human’, but he has an excuse, a _good_ one because whoaaa buddy that is a thigh insinuating itself between his legs, that is a cock pressing against Tony’s belly, he just knows it is, even through the million layers between them. 

McGee, fucking _Probie_ , laughs into his mouth, leans back enough for Tony to notice how pink and swollen his lips look in the dim light from Tony’s lamps, that his eyes are heavy and cats-eye green, a dozen shades lighter than Tony’s own. He looks perfectly content and perfectly in control, like they hadn’t just _kissed_ , hadn’t just had their tongues in each other’s mouths. Something heavy falls into Tony’s belly, tugging his arousal down from around his heart to wrap around his cock. He gets hard, so hard, harder than he’s been in ages, so hard he gets a little light headed and is painfully glad for the door under his shoulder blades. 

“You look so surprised,” McGee says, tracing his big thumb over Tony’s lower lip, and the heat in his belly doubles, triples, though he stops himself from opening his mouth by force of will. He wants it, though, he really wants it, to open his mouth and suck on that thumb and drag it over the head of his cock pressing into his zipper.

McGee, forever gaining brownie points in Tony’s eyes, doesn’t mention the bit about keeping Tony from sliding down the door, or the way his fingers tighten on Tony’s hips -- _holy shit how did they get on his hips_ , where the hell was Tony when McGee put his _hands_ on Tony’s _HIPS_ \- or the way he leans back enough that he takes that smell with him and lets Tony catch his breath and get his bearings and open his yap.

“Cock. How weird is that.”

McGee arches a brow, glances down between them at where they’re both hard and pressing against each other, through chinos and jeans and sweaters and underwear. “Pretty weird.”

“I mean. There has to be a game plan or something.”

“Game plan?”

“Yeah.” He hopes his freakedoutedness isn’t bleeding through into his voice, but he’s pretty sure he isn’t succeeding. _Knows_ he isn’t succeeding by the look McGee gives him, the hand that comes up to stroke through his hair. “I mean. There are cocks. Two of them.”

“Unless there’s something you want to tell me,” McGee agrees, and damn him anyway for being so damned calm and _not freaked out_.

Tony glares at him. “You’re not making this any easier.”

“By being a man?”

“Yes,” Tony says, glad the McMoron finally got it. 

McGee hums and, obviously bored with Tony’s line of thinking, decides to occupy himself with the edge of Tony’s jaw. Stubble rasps almost silently against his skin, and McGee’s hands are warm on his hips ( _hips_ ), and actually, no, that’s one of McGee’s hands on his hip because the other one is going up under Tony’s jacket and sweater and t-shirt and settling like a brand against the base of Tony’s spine. 

He feels the touch like a shot up into his brain, sensation exploding all the way through him – who knew such am innocent touch could be so erotic? “Cocks,” he repeats, because he really needs McGee to get this, to understand his reasoning here. Multiple cocks. Balls! Jesus, how could he have forgotten about balls, heavy as they felt between his legs? He feels like he’s just barely gotten the logistics down on having two balls in play, but four? Four just throws the whole board off. 

“Cocks,” Tony says into McGee’s hair (he’s going to have a hickey tomorrow, he just knows it), and maybe this time he’s sincere enough, or maybe there’s a reason the Probie is on Gibbs’ team, because Tim says, “You keep saying that,” like it’s some huge thing, and “Oh my God, you’ve never had sex with a—Tony, please tell me I’m not the first man you’ve had,” and okay, yes, _finally_.

“Thought I was going to have to spell it out to you, McHorny,” Tony says, pretty sure he’s squeaking there a bit at the end, though that may be because McGee has finally, finally unbuttoned his pants and shoved them down enough to free Tony from his pants and the release of pressure is almost as good as _coming_. He groans, rough with pleasure he will never, ever admit to, and tackles McGee’s buttons, all seventy six million of them down the front of his trousers. 

“How can I be the first?” McGee demands, and worries at Tony’s earlobe like it’s a damn chew toy, which, well, that bit is okay because Tim is just that hair taller than him (though he will never, ever admit it), and he keeps tilting Tony’s head back for his mouth, and Tony is very quickly developing a full-blown _kink_. “Didn’t you go to boarding school?”

“I’m straight,” Tony says, and McGee glares and busts a move Tony hasn’t ever even _seen_ , a move clearly reserved for gay men and two cocks. He grabs at Tony’s ass and knees his thighs open and fucks _forward_ , a rolling, moving thrust that grinds them together right there where they stand and bangs Tony back so hard against his door he feels it shake his bones. “Wait,” he says, strangled, and Tim just does it again, cock dragging hot and hard against his, “I wasn’t ready, dammit!”

“You’re ready,” Tim says, low and vibrating, sex-voice shooting all the way up to Tony’s brain. 

All the muscles in his neck seem to go to water, and there’s Tim, sucking at his ear and throat and scraping his teeth over Tony’s roaring pulse. McGee does it _again_ , a hard, rolling thrust that somehow loops Tony in because that’s Tim’s hand on the top of his ass, guiding him into the movement, and oh sweet mercy, if he’d known that _this_ was gay sex he’d have jumped on this train ages ago, _years_ ago.

He feels a vibration somewhere around his throat and peers down to see Tim… he’s laughing again, that bastard, and Tony flicks his ear, hard. “Sh-shut up,” he hisses, because _their cocks are smushed together_ , and he figures it’s time McGee got a taste of his own medicine. He reaches down to grab them both in his hand, hard and tight just like he likes it, along the ridges of the heads and the thick, hard tips, and McGee goes satisfyingly rigid. “Hah,” he adds, and doesn’t at all think about how he’s having sex with a man because it’s _McGee_ and it feels good, and safe, and like it’s always been headed this way.

And then McGee, proving without a reasonable doubt that he’s well versed in gay hanky panky, falls to his knees between Tony’s legs. It also happens to be the exact moment Tony loses his shit -- he thumps his head back against the door and makes a noise only dolphins can hear because _McGee has his fucking gorgeous mouth on Tony’s unbelievably aching cock_ and it’s all Tony can do not to collapse into a puddle of Chinese rice and Italian cop and expire right then and there. 

McGee takes it a step further and cups him high between his legs, just gathers Tony’s balls he’d been so worried about a minute ago and kneads them as he works Tony’s jeans down and—

“OhshitohGod,” he shrills, grabbing a hold of McGee’s shoulder (puffy shoulder, from his shoulder pads, from his suit, because McGee is a man and McGee is about to _blow_ him) and hanging on as tight as he can as Tim tugs down the dark denim and sucks, inferno-hot, at the aching head of Tony’s dick. His little tongue, the same that had been in Tony’s mouth, the same Tony had seen caught between his teeth and licking his lower lip and moving as he talked, the tongue Tony’s been around for six years and never thought twice about, is unraveling Tony’s spine with every little lick. 

He hears himself babbling things he will never admit to saying, things like “oh Christ oh Jesus your _mouth_ ” and “yes, right there, god you’re beautiful” and “wanted this forever, forever” which is a lie, a filthy _lie_. He didn’t know he wanted Tim until ten minutes ago when he pushed Tony into his apartment and said, “I am so sick and tired of this, you are such an emotionally repressed child,” and proceeded to kiss Tony stupid.

“Yesyesyes,” he gasps, and Tim hums around his cock and looks up at him, and something about that flips in Tony’s gut, shoves him right over the edge, and just as suddenly he’s coming so hard his balls all but turn inside out. Pleasure lights him up, hot and bright and _so good._ His fingers tighten in Tim’s hair and he sobs out loud like he’s a girl, and _Tim is licking every drop_ , and it is the most gorgeous thing Tony has ever seen, ever.

He drags Tim up by the lapels and ignores the part of him that is yowling like a terrified cat at the harsh, bright, bitter smell of come on McGee’s pink mouth, and kisses him, licks all that probalicious salt and sex into himself. Tony sticks his hand down Tim’s pants and strokes him – hard, warm skin, weeping slit – and after a handful of strokes makes him come so hard Tim’s entire _body_ jackknifes into Tony’s. He groans curses and prayers into Tony’s neck, and it doesn’t seem to matter all that much that he’s got his hand down Tim’s pants, because Tim catches his mouth like a dying man and Tony feels like a _god_.

They breathe for a while, pressed up against the door, but that feels good, too. Sweat is cooling in Tony’s hair, around the neck of his sweater, down the small of his back where Tim’s fingers keep stroking. Now that his heart isn’t trying to beat out of his chest he can hear the clock in the kitchen, the hum of the fridge, the noise of muffled traffic outside his window. Tony waits for the freak-out to happen, and waits, and waits some more, and after a while he says, “Huh.”

Tim makes a noise against his throat, but Tony ignores him. The cock in his hand has gone soft and Tony can’t help but tighten his fingers gently around it, tacky and sticky with come as it is. Tim moans so Tony does it again, noses soft into the hidden space behind Tim’s ear. “Again,” he says. 

“Tony.” 

“Again,” and Tony squeezes, feels Tim draw in a startled breath. He brushes his mouth across Tim’s throat, his ear, his cheek, his mouth. “No way are you going to leave me hanging like this.”

“Hanging?” Tim asks from somewhere around Tony’s collar bone, snuffling soft with laughter. 

A hand. Around his cock. Tony swallows hard, tastes his own come in the edges of his mouth. “Hanging,” he says, firmly, without squeaking whatsoever. “Unless you’re a one-fuck kind of guy.”

The jibe hits home. Tony gleefully watches McGee’s eyes narrow, watches him purse the sweet bow of his lower lip. “Isn’t that more your area?” Tim says, and tugs Tony’s hand from his trousers, licks at his own come streaked across Tony’s palm. Heat explodes between his legs and he really wants Tim to leave his fingers alone for a minute so they can kiss again, and solves the problem by licking his fingers, too. Tim’s come tastes salt-bright and acrid, and he hates it, except the part where he fucking _loves_ it. “That your nickname in college? Bang-and-Beat DiNozzo?”

“My frat name,” Tony says, his words scraping at the inside of his throat, “was Sex Machine.”

Tim stops and stares at him, as if to decipher whether or not Tony is full of shit. He almost gets away with it, if it weren’t for the tell-tale hardening against Tony’s thigh. “Are you kidding me? ‘Sex Machine’?”

“I had a lot of sex,” Tony says, amused in the face of Tim’s not-at-all-adorable disgruntlement. He doesn’t bother to add that he was a skinny, dorky looking kid at eighteen with too much hair, coke-bottle glasses, and a three-point shot that made nuns cry, or that he arrived at Alpha Chi Delta so virginal even virgins winced at the sight of him.

“Uh huh.” Tim brushes his mouth against the rough edge of Tony’s jaw, his throat, his ear. “Are we going to talk about this?”

“No,” Tony says, and nudges down for Tim’s lips, for his mouth, warm and salty and good. His chest feels funny, tight and full and aching, like he’s only ever felt once before. And this was all a surprise, a huge surprise, but maybe it wasn’t really a surprise at all -- Tony realizes that maybe they’ve always been headed here, towards this intimacy. Tim has been on the edge of his awareness for so long, for _ever_ , that it’s almost as if he’s always been a part of Tony’s life, with his big sweet smile and his enormous green eyes and his heart, too big for his chest.

It’s good, the kiss, the kiss he’s having with a man, the kiss he’s having with Tim McGee. Tony is closer to forty than he is to thirty and far too old to be having these kinds of revelations about himself, but what the hell, live and learn.

Tim lets go of his mouth to smile, and Tony smiles back. “Maybe after,” he says, and takes Tim’s hand in his, and pulls him away from the door into the warmth of his home. 


End file.
